


A Long Way From Feeling Like Home

by elsha



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, BAMF Arthur, Betrayal, Christianity, Druid Merlin, Holy Roman Empire, King Arthur AU, M/M, Magic, Paganism, Roman Britain, Roman Commander Arthur, Scotland Weather Abuse, doomed romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 07:34:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/758760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elsha/pseuds/elsha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“It’s hard, not being allowed to be held by your Mother or comforted by a friend, or,” Merlin seems to take a shallow breath for a moment, “caressed by a lover.” Arthur’s heart jolts at the words and he looks away as a rosy blush reaches Merlin’s pale cheeks.<i></i></i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Long Way From Feeling Like Home

**Author's Note:**

> In 407AD The Empire of Rome occupies Britain. With little choice Arthur and his Knights fight as part of the Roman cavalry to protect the south of Britain from rebels and believers of the Old Religion who are trying to over throw the Roman Empire and reclaim their homeland. Arthur; a man of god, an ally of Rome and the once and future King of Britain travels north beyond Hadrian's Wall to investigate rumors of a Saxon incursion in the north with hopes to take over Britain once Rome has departed. Along the way Arthur and his men meet a familiar face. Merlin: a young druid and High Priest of the Old Religion and an old acquaintance of Arthur’s but no friend of Rome.

The planes of the North are cover in dark emerald grass and the beginnings of white scattered snow has begun to set, tiny clumps of white fall lightly from the sky. One particular high hill overshadows all the others closest to the large forest and looks over a marshland. Frost gathers there icing over the water and mud making the path even more treacherous.

 

A soft breeze floats through the forest trees making the leaves rustle ominously. These lonely planes have little inhabitance other than small villages separated by many leagues moors. And in this land it is always cold and summer rarely comes here. The clouds only gift these lands with rain, snow and sleet; though crops do grow here it is rare for any food to be found in winter.

 

The quietness of the moor is interrupted by the sound of hooves. The trees sway in the now strong wind building up towards a gale.

 

A rider stops his horse at the top of the high hill overlooking the marshland. His pale eyes roam the land before satisfied his eyes turn to the thick forest to the west. His eyes turn wary and he tries to see what the forest hides. He wears a cloak of wool, lined by dark fur, though his cloth is simple underneath, he wear dark armor over it, chipped and scratched it has obviously seen much of war and death. Around his waist he wears a sword, not the craft of this land but from the Far East where life is sand, blood and sun. His hair a dark blond it is almost brown hangs to his shoulders in knots and braids and covers his forehead, coming across his eyes. At first glance he would be seen as a traveler in a land that is not his own instead of a warrior.

 

But this is the North the only ones who travel here are Woads and sorcerers and those who are looking for death. But the wind whispers of new visitors on her shores. Those who wish to wash her lands in fire and death, those who call themselves Saxons.

 

The rider whistles suddenly and the wind carries it back down the hill. After a moment the sound of many hooves echo in the air. More riders come.

 

The first is a tall man on a black horse, his pale brown eyes full of amusement. Like the other rider he wears fur, but his armor is more obvious it as seen just as much war but his air is much less solemn, more playful and relaxed. His dark brown hair is slightly shorter and smoother than the other, his face stubbled. And when he speaks it is in a smooth and teasing Irish accent. "All clear, Tristan?" He asks.

 

Tristan's still wry eyes do not turn from the forest. "So it would seem Gawain."

 

Gawain chuckles at the man’s worrying state. "Be at ease my friend," he says clapping his friend on the back. "I doubt we'll meet any Woads this close to nightfall." Though his comment sounds confident it does little to rest Tristan's uneasiness.

 

Three other riders join them, the first a very well built and obviously strong man, dressed in chain mail and cloth his hair scalped. On his back he has an axe and a short sword in his sheath. He nods to Gawain then Tristan as a slightly smaller man, dirty blond hair of waves sidles up on his left.

 

The third man unlike the others who are pale has olive skin; his hair is dark and thick, the ends of his locks curl round the nape of his neck. His beard is trimmed and well kept unlike those who have one. Unlike the others he holds himself straighter less like a pilgrim and more like a knight or someone of much higher standing like a lord or a count. His black armor is lined with gold, which has now lost its shine and blackened in places. At side his sword is sheathed.

 

It is now obvious that this company is not travellers but warriors however whether or not they are soldiers of Rome or deserters is not known.

 

"How long is the Princess going to be Lancelot?" Gawain asks playfully to the olive skinned man.

 

Lancelot's brown eyes leave the woods where he had been watching from the moment he reached the top of the hill. "He's checking to see we are not being followed."

 

"Can't be too careful here." Comments the largest built man.

 

Gawain snorts. "I'll tell you what I told Tristan, Percival we won't see any Woads at this time."

 

The wavy haired man next to Percival shakes his head at Gawain's insistence. "Maybe not but they say sorcerers wander the moors by night." He grimaces, "I wouldn't want to meet one of them in the dark."

 

"I trust Arthur to lead us safely through the North." Lancelot says his voice full of absolute unwavering trust yet his eyes like Tristan’s look to the wood hesitance in them.

 

Gawain rolls his eyes at the knight. "Right of course, put all your faith in one man look where that got us."

 

Lancelot's eyes flash to Gawain. "I do not blame Arthur for this," he snaps out "He did not force this upon us."

 

"No," comments Gawain with calm and ease. "But he didn't exactly say no now did he."

 

Percival on his horse looks uneasy at the turn of the conversation but that doesn't stop him from speaking up. "We are all here because we are loyal to Arthur, he never asked this of us we volunteered."

 

Anger begins to seep into Gawain's expression as he speaks though he does not make eye contact with Percival. "Well if I would blame someone it would be those damn Romans, they think they can still take over the rest of this country when we all know they won't be here by next winter."

 

The wavy haired man shakes his head once more in Gawain's direction. "Don't let Arthur hear you saying that Gawain."

 

"We all know his royal highness loves his Rome." Gawain says with a bitter Laugh.

 

"Leon is right." Tristan says finally his eyes leave the wood speaking for the first time to the company. "No one is forcing you to continue on this quest Gawain."

 

Gawain's eyes narrow dead on Tristan and the other man smirks seemingly wanting to get this reaction out of the Irish man. "I don't intend to leave my commander and company Tristan."

 

"Good." The man says smirk still on his face. "Save your anger for the Woads then."

 

They fall silent at hearing heavy hoof falls not far from their location. In the next moment a rider appears on the ridge not far from them. Unlike the others he does not wear fur and his armor is completely black, his chest plate lined with silver, he kicks his black horse into a trot and as he moves his deep red cloak flows with the wind. It is Roman red; of dark blood and leadership and his armor is also Roman but his weapon is not. The sword is beautiful unlike the other weapons belonging to the warriors this sword looks fit for a king. In fact everything about the man is kingly. He holds himself like a lord yet like a deadly warrior, his chin raised slightly not in an aloof way but in a way a bold and sure leader should. His hair is blond like the sun like Lancelot it curls to the nape of his neck, and over his forehead but is not cut like the knights instead it is more like the cut of a Roman commander.

 

His blue eyes are striking and clear, the hard and ice cold and the man is even more solemn than Tristan though there is nothing wry in his eyes.

 

He nods to Lancelot first who nods back. His eyes then meet Tristan's and the question of safety passes between the two and is answered. Only then does he address the rest of his company.

 

"Gentlemen." His voice smooth as silk and loud and clear for them all to hear but not so loud as it might carry. "Shall we."

 

Without an answer because in this man's mind, Arthur, the once and future King of Britain it need not be asked of his knights and his men, his equals because his trust in them is unshakable he continues down the hill towards the forest.

 

And in an instant the men follow their commander unquestionably.

 

-

 

Arthur remembers much of his childhood. Thought his father was the king of Britain Arthur did not live in a kingly castle or a grand palace. He in fact hardly saw his father. Uther was a great king but a king of a broken country ruled by Romans constantly battling the Woads who once were his own people. Uther became an ally of Rome and serviced them all his life like the generations before him. 

 

His mother had been a Roman woman who had come to Britain with her father a powerful Bishop who later agreed to let Uther and Igraine marry. Arthur had grown up in Rome his mother had died giving birth leaving Arthur to be raised by his uncle who had followed in his father’s footsteps and became a powerful bishop and a close confident of the Pope.

 

Agravain had wanted Arthur to take the cloth and give himself to god completely but though Arthur’s faith belonged to that of god he himself belonged on the battlefield, as a leader of men though he did not know it then.

 

When he was just nine Uther ordered for Arthur to be sent from Rome back to Britain, to a great fort near Hadrian's Wall there was where Arthur was to be taught the ways of this land to be trained in combat and the art of battle. But Arthur’s capabilities of leading men and showing mercy where not taught to him but were natural to him. Though his belief in god continued he still held his belief in the equality of all men.

 

Still Arthur hardly ever saw his father the man was a stranger in his eyes. He remembered little of him having left Britain only as a baby. But the man that stood before him was a rough warrior hardened by battle and the land he loved but could never truly call his. This man looked at him with indifference and a cold mask he could never break through. But sometimes he would catch a sidelong glance a flash of rawness and remembrance. 

 

Arthur grew up in the fort training with the other boys his age as a squire. He was treated no different than the other boys there and he was glad for it.

 

He’d spend time with the village children who lived in the land outside of the fort though it was rare thing with his squire duties and his training. Unlike him these children were pagans not followers of one god but many. Arthur took no offence to this but he found their customs and rituals quite stranger but there was one boy who intrigued him the most. He was the son of one of the many maidservants who worked in the fort: Hunith who Arthur had been close to when living there.

 

His name was Merlin.      

   

 

.

 

 

The blood and mud sticks to Arthur's hands while the leather of the reins dig into his skin. All he can smell is blood and frost, taste dirt and blood on his lips that isn't his own, his forehead sticky with sweat and his skin darkened by muck. His fellow knights are in the same state as he none of them seriously harmed but all in need of food and rest.

 

Tristan takes the lead as he always does and the rest follow their horse walking slow so as to not make much noise.

 

When the figure comes into view his men already had their weapons drawn, in fact they had done so the second they heard rustling of trees. They had survived one surprise attack of Woads and Arthur had thought they would be unlikely to attack again but the Northern borders are dangerous and have a habit of proving its visitors wrong.

 

The figure is male by the clothing, Arthur’s height but his build is slim and lean and would have once been so to the point of scrawny. He is definitely not a warrior; Arthur doubts he’d be able to lift a sword with his boney arms and slight wrists. His clothes are fairly simple and nobles are an unheard of thing here apart from a few scattered Roman families occupying leadership in the Woad free villages.

 

He wears a thick cloak of navy over what must be more dark robes and he wears no armor at all not even chainmail and as far as Arthur can see he has no visible weapons. The figure wears a hood and a veil covering the lower part of his face. His eyes are framed by black smudged around his eyes and Arthur recognizes it as kohl worn by high priests and priestesses and it highlights the dark clear blue colour of the man’s eyes making them sharp and bright.

 

“Halt!” Leon shouts, Tristan and Percival already have an arrow at the ready. Arthur is about to signal to his men to stead their weapons but the figure continues his advance not even hesitating at Leon’s command. Tristan fires a warning shot aiming for right past the man’s ear and Arthur trusts him not to hit the figure for he is the best with a bow and arrow.

 

The figure raises a gloved hand and for a moment his dark blue eyes flash molten gold.

 

The arrow that had been flying true suddenly swerves as if being pulled by a rope following the movement of the man’s arm to the far right where his open palm is angled. 

 

“Sorcerer!” Gawain yells his horse grunts and yelps as he kicks it forward.

 

Lancelot on Arthur’s right is the first to start forward unsheathing his sword. Then giving a sudden grunt of pain dropping his weapon as if burned and Arthur thinks that is in fact the case because the figures eyes flash gold once more and Arthur sees his veil move as the figure speaks below it but his voice does not carry.

 

“Stand down.” Arthur calls to his men, and Lancelot looks up at him in disbelief. His other men also wear similar expressions and Tristan wears one mixed with displeasure.       

  

The figure stops at hearing Arthur’s voice his arms no longer raised but at his sides.

 

Arthur pushes his stead forward well aware that his men follow close behind. He sidles his horse up close so the man has to crane his neck upwards to look Arthur in the eye. Arthur looks down at the deep blue eyes and the strip pale skin not covered by the hood or veil.

 

Arthur speaks when the figure make no attempt to declare himself. “Forgive my men they act before they think.”

 

The blue eyes do not waver and Arthur sees the cloth of the black veil tighten as the man takes in breaths. When he does speak his voice is soft with playful like brightness to it slightly muffed by the veil. “A common trait in knights I believe.” He mocks.

 

Llamrei snorts her displeasure at such a statement and Arthur does not give the man the benefit of his smile at the joke. “Maybe in common guards but not in my knights.”

 

Arthur is sure that the figure is smiling underneath the veil. “I only jest, my lord.”

 

Now Arthur gives a half-smile but his eyes are still hard. “Yes, you always did.”

 

The figure makes a move to raise his hand and Arthur can feel his men behind him tense. But the figure only moves to push down his veil to his neck revealing more pale skin, perfectly shaped red lips and high accented cheekbones. The lips are curved into a small private smile that Arthur would know on any face. “Hello Merlin.” 

 

Merlin bows slightly, his eyes leaving Arthur’s as he lowers his head and Arthur finds himself searching them out instantly. When Merlin raises his head a full smile is on his face and his blue eyes dance with the same light they do when gold. “Arthur.”

 

He looks older but certainly younger than the age Arthur knows he is and the thirteen years it has been since he last looked upon Merlin’s face have certainly been kind to him and Arthur has a moment of vanity and hopes he looks the same way in Merlin’s eyes.  “I thought it impossible that I would ever see you here.”

 

 _Ever again,_ the words are not spoken but they are surely implied. Arthur’s departure had been sudden at the age of seventeen and just knighted his father hand sent commands for Arthur to be dispatched to the east. That was where he had met Lancelot and the two had become as close as brothers it was not long after Arthur was promoted to commander where he soon met the rest of his men.

 

Arthur only knew that after his father’s death two years later that it was no longer safe for magic-users or families of Woads to stay south the wall a huge wave of them left all at once when the Romans were forced to fight more and more of the British rebels who traveled over the wall. Fights have only heated up between the two sides since then but with Uther’s death and Arthur’s refusal to take up the crown and continue to be a Roman commander the Romans saw it as an opportunity to take back the north country. Of course they never made it further north than the edge of Hadrain’s wall. But when news of Uther’s death reached them Merlin and the rest of his people must have left for the north for their own safety and they would have been welcomed with open arms as pagans.        

 

“Impossible?” Arthur inquires his playfulness seeping back into his tone as if it was only yesterday that a young Arthur and Merlin met.   

 

Merlin smile turns apologetic. “It is just so rare for us to have visitors in this land.”

 

Arthur nods the druids must be well aware of the Saxons planning to invade their shores. His men are still slightly shaken with the conformation of the news with their own eyes and the promise of hundreds most likely thousands to join the team that camp now in the far north. As much as Arthur wants to continue his conversation to Merlin he can feel his men getting restless as night draws ever closer and the air beings to smell thick with pending rain and the blanket of white cloud slowly turns to grey with the promise of a storm and he’ll be damned if he will let Merlin travel on his own. “Where are you heading?”

 

Merlin does not hesitate in giving his answer. “East.”

 

“What a coincidence.” Arthur hears Tristan murmur to his far right.

 

Arthur turns his attention to his men their expressions a mixture of confusion sourness and impatience out of all of them Percival looks the most uncomfortable unlike the rest he had never had the pleasure of meeting a magic-user. Arthur looks to Lancelot and of course the man reads him before he has a chance to speak. 

 

“Arthur you cannot be serious.”

 

Arthur raises an eyebrow at his friend. “Merlin is an acquaintance of mine –“ He starts only to be interrupted by Gawain.

 

“Yet he is also a druid and Sorcerer no less.” The man fires back and next to him Leon nods in agreement.  

 

“I mean you no harm Sir Gawain.” Comes Merlin’s voice annoyance buried deep at being talked about in such a crass way within earshot.

 

Gawain chocks out “How?” But stops himself muttering under his breath remembering that this is a sorcerer after all.  

 

Merlin’s blue sharp eyes look to each of his men individually as he speaks. “I know all about Arthur and his knights everyone in this land does.”

 

This doesn’t reassure any of his knights at all but out of all them Tristan seems unbothered by the warlock’s presence

 

“I travel east to refuge where the rest of my people have inhabited for safety from the Saxons.” Merlin tells them.

 

“Then we shall escort you.”

 

Merlin’s gaze turns back to Arthur his eyes wide and he gives a shake of the head. “Arthur there is really no need.” His eyes dart to his knights once more and for the first time he sees nervousness in them.  

 

“It’s four days walk from here.” Tristan speaks up surprising Arthur. The man gives a shrug to his commander saying he’s unbothered by whether or not Merlin joins them. The man had like Arthur grown up around magic-users and Woads and was use to them though all of his men serve Rome out of force he thinks Tristan is the most resigned to this, the man takes a lot of pleasure in killing and fighting.

 

Arthur turns to each of his men some nods more reluctant than others, but they are his men and he knows they trust him with their lives as he does his. Arthur turns to Lancelot who stares Arthur down for a few moments his whole expression showing how much he dislikes this idea. Finally he gives a heaving sigh and nods.

 

Arthur claps his hand on the man’s shoulder communicating his thanks.  

 

“Well then,” he says turning to Merlin once more and the man looks like he’s going to attempt to protest once more but when Arthur holds out a hand Merlin sighs accepting the offer.

 

Merlin reaches out a leather gloved hand to grasp Arthur’s and the long sleeve of his cloak falls away to reveal his wrist covered by a tight shirt sleeve tucked into the glove not showing an inch of skin. Arthur grasps his wrist as Merlin does the same, this is likely the closest Arthur will get to actually touching skin with a thin piece of cloth as a barrier and inwardly he snorts bitterly. Merlin places his boot into Arthur’s stirrup and he easily pulls Merlin up to him as if he were a feather. Merlin’s other leg comes across in till he is sitting in the saddle his arms winding round Arthur’s waist his chest pressing into Arthur’s back.    

 

“Tristan ride ahead.” Arthur calls to the man when Merlin is comfortable kicking his horse into a trot. His men follow and as they continue their trek through the forest to find shelter. Arthur tries – to no avail – not to notice the press of Merlin’s body against his, the tight grip of his arms, the feel of his breath softly ghosting past his cheek.

 

.

 

 

They manage to find a cave hidden deep in the forest running close to a small waterfall. They stop to let their horses drink in the shallow pool while Tristan goes to investigate their chosen shelter and Percival and Gawain offer to go and hunt.

 

Arthur gets off his horse splashing in the water; lucky it only just comes up to his ankles meaning his feet stay fairly dry. He scoops up the cold water into his hands cleaning the dirt and blood off his face and hands as best he can.

 

Next to him his horse Llamrei stoops her head to drink and Arthur pats her neck. Merlin is still seated in the saddle watching Arthur closely his fingers brushing through Llamrei’s mane and she seems to enjoy because she hasn’t yet tried to throw Merlin off.

 

Arthur goes to help Merlin down from the saddle catching his sides when he slides down trying hard not to get too close but it is evitable and Merlin ducks his head not meeting Arthur’s eyes and purposely going out of his way not to brush past Arthur.

 

At the sound of crunching stones underfoot Arthur looks up to see Tristan approaching. The man gives a stiff nod of the head. “The cave runs deep but as far as I can see the only company we will keep is bats.”

 

“Thank you my friend.” Arthur says to Tristan.

 

Tristan takes the reins of the horses to take them into the cave. Not before turning to Arthur to say: “I remember the druids when they were peaceful folk.” His light sea blue eyes look deep into Arthur’s. “I’d hate to be the one druid who turns against their own kind.”    

 

Arthur does to; they had been quiet folk who rarely come over the wall. Merlin and his family was the rare few who lived south of the wall. But Merlin’s father had been a close advisor and friend of Uther so had been welcome even though most of the Romans did not trust them. But Merlin was different from anything he’d ever seen. Always ever inch of his skin covered in cloth and the brief bits of pale skin Arthur did catch was always covered by strange blue tattoo like symbols. Gaius the village elder had called Merlin the pure-one. He was born of magic and no person was allowed to touch him because he was untainted and he could not be corrupted by the touch of others.

 

“Where do you think you’re going?” Arthur hears Lancelot say and he turns to see an annoyed looking Merlin glaring at Lancelot.

 

“To bathe,” he answers his annoyed gaze turning on Arthur “or do I need permission like a child?”

 

Arthur nods he trust Merlin but his men’s faith matters to him. “Tristan.” He says nodding at the man out of all of him he surprising trusts Tristan to be the most civil. After all the man grew up not just as a pagan but worshipping the old religion once though the man held no magic.

 

Tristan seems unbothered, Merlin however looks angry but he doesn’t say just mutters under his breath turning on his heal and stoking off in the opposite direction.

 

Next to him Lancelot mutters: “I hope you know what you’re doing.”    

 

.

 

 While the rest of his men prepare the horse Arthur finds himself wandering, following the river till he comes to a large pool of water. Tristan rests on a branch not far away an apple in hand as he cuts off the pieces with a small knife to eat. When he sees Arthur coming he jumps down from his watching place giving Arthur nothing but a nod.

 

Arthur eyes scan the pool looking for Merlin’s figure but he sees nothing at first. Arthur approaches wryly; surely Tristan would not have let him drown. He knows his men better than that.

 

There’s a splash of water and Arthur’s watches as Merlin rises from the water. Merlin’s pale skin is sheen with water, blue tattoos and pagan symbols intertwined all over his body. Merlin’s back it’s still to him as he dips down in the water cleaning the invisible dirt off.

 

Arthur just leans against the tree his eyes raking over Merlin’s form.

 

 Merlin’s fingers begin to comb through his hair still not turning. “You could at least be helpful and pass me my robe.” His soft voice carrying on the wind no doubt a smile in it.

 

Arthur starts, looking around till he sees Merlin’s clothes picking up the thick navy cloak. “I’m sorry I did not mean,” he stops as Merlin turns wadding through the water. Arthur clears his throat and hangs the cloak on a branch turning his back.

 

Merlin laughs from behind and Arthur hears the rustling of clothes being shaken. “I remember when we were young and I use to have to use the bathhouses at the fort the maid would catch and scold you for spying.”

 

Arthur remembers that to. Uther was a fair man and respected the druids rituals every few weeks Merlin would come to the fort to be bathed for religious reasons while the young priestess would decorate his feet and hands with henna. At the feel of a hand on his arm Arthur turns to see Merlin once more dressed from head to toe in his clothes, his hands wearing gloves once more.

 

Arthur stares at Merlin’s hand for a few moments. “I never understood it then, the meaning of the ink markings on your skin why I was never allowed,” His own goes out to touch but Merlin retracts it. “Forgive me,’ Arthur says voice heavy with guilt “old habits.”

 

“Still a prat.” Merlin answers teasingly to lighten the mood.

 

But then his eyes search Arthur’s own scanning his face as if trying to find something left of that little boy in that village. “But gods you have changed.” Merlin says his smile breathtaking.  

 

“You haven’t,” Arthur tells him, “not one bit.”

 

Merlin’s smiles eases off slowly as if suddenly remembering something, sadness coming over him. “Yes I have,” he whispers suddenly not able to look Arthur in the eye, “and not for the better.”

 

Arthur frowns wondering what could make Merlin say such a thing. He’s about to question it further when Merlin looks to the dark blue sky. “It’s getting dark, we best be heading back.”

 

He leaves the forest heading back to the cave and Arthur follows shortly after.

  

.

 

Arthur takes the watch after Percival. He expects to be alone but Merlin is there sitting huddling close to the fire that should have died out long ago. Arthur watches him as he approaches, noticing Merlin’s shivers.

 

Arthur takes his scarlet cloak with him and warps it around Merlin’s shoulder. Merlin starts at the movement bare hand snapping up almost catching Arthur’s, his eyes drift back to the fire looking sad and apologetic. “You’re cold.” Arthur states sitting next to him but not to close his eyes join Merlin’s in watching the fire.

 

“Thank you.” Merlin says softly.  

 

They are silent for a while content to listen to the crackling of the over zealous fire.  Arthur watches the flickers of blue and orange melt into gold, feeding it with logs he knows it doesn’t need with Merlin’s magic feeding it. He catches Merlin glancing at him a few times finally giving in to silence. “What?”

 

Merlin bites his lip, his gloveless hand wrapping Arthur’s cloak tighter around himself, he still wear his hood, maybe to fend off the cold but Arthur is happy it doesn’t fully shield his face. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

 

“No?”

 

Merlin nods head indicating to Percival’s now sleeping form, most of his men sleep light but tonight has been long and visions of a full Saxon army still plague their minds. “Sir Percival tells me you plan to leave for Rome once you and the rest of the men are discharged.”

 

“I do, it is my wish to return there,” He gives a laugh at the possibility “and I’ll give thanks to god when I do.”

 

Merlin’s attention turns back to him, his body facing him fully. “You do not wish to stay in Britain? You’re father would’ve been heartbroken. He loved this country.”

 

It’s true but it was his father’s home not Arthur’s.

 

His father had been described as a fair man especially to the remainder of the followers of the old religion who stayed in his village, his father had been a life long Pagan unlike his mother but it did not stop their love. Though to Arthur he’s always been a commander. “My father stopped having influence over my life the day he died.”

 

Merlin shook his head staring intently into Arthur’s eyes. “I thought you would have taken up your father’s crown become King.”

 

“Of what?” Arthur snorts.

 

“Your father was a good man.” Merlin looks like he wants to reach for Arthur to comfort it must be so hard knowing he can’t. “And so are you Arthur, you are born to lead men.” His voice is soft but his eyes hard full of the faith and determination he had those days in the village.

 

“Men deserve to all be equal.” Arthur retaliates he will not be like his Roman fellows in that respect.

 

“But do they not also deserve someone to lead them to?” Merlin answers. He had always been smart, knowledge of both magic and politics. He would have been a great advisor yet he had no choice but to give his mind, body and soul to his deities.   

 

“I never wanted to be king.” Arthur replies meaning for it to be the end of the discussion.  

 

Merlin’s voice is sharp. “So you are happy to remain a Roman?”

 

“Content, yes. Happy,” Arthur trails off, poking at the fire again so he doesn’t have to look at Merlin, so as not to answer the question. He trusts his men and looks forward to going back to Rome the place he had not seen since he was a child. He looks forward to once again returning to his home, where he can at last be one with god. Not that god isn’t with him as he fights.   

 

“I am embarrassed.” Merlin says suddenly, guiltily and abruptly changing the subject.   

 

“Why is that?”

 

Merlin’s blush deepens. “I thought you would be married by now.”

 

Arthur considers him for a few moments smiling inwardly at Merlin’s embarrassment the smugness not leaving his face. “No.” He says slowly and deliberately watching as Merlin’s flush deepens in the soft glow of the fire. The thought of marriage had never once crossed his mind not that there hadn’t been men and women he’d taken to his bed. But he’d been so focused on his men’s safety and freedom, of once again returning to Rome. And then there was the wish of seeing Merlin once more before he left. He’s glad they’d never crossed paths in battle but of course to his people Merlin is far too cherished for that.

 

Merlin’s gloveless hands suddenly move to Arthur’s weapon. “Excalibur.” He says in awe then his eyes silently ask the question which Arthur nods to. Merlin’s hands grasp the sword pulling it from its scabbard. Before he place it down close to the fire, next to Arthur between them both, separating them.      

 

“You never thought I would wield another sword did you?” Arthur asks eyebrows rose with the question.

 

“No it’s not that,” Merlin’s fingertips trace the metal design of the handle not meeting Arthur’s gaze for a moment he looks as if he’s trying to swallow down memories. He looks up to Arthur when he’s ready searching out his eyes. “It suits you.” He says warmly.

 

“You were the one to give it to me.” Arthur reminds him when he knows full well Merlin remembers as well as he.  

 

Merlin shakes his head at Arthur’s words. “It was yours the moment you pulled it from that stone.” Arthur doesn’t reply just watches as Merlin’s gaze turns to watch the fire once more, the blades of fire crackly and sway with the wind and Merlin raises his fingertips ever so slightly causing the fire to shudder now moving under the command of it’s new master. “You were so young then,” Merlin muses and the orange flames tremor and intertwine like lovers, “seventeen, barely even a knight.”

 

“I would never have parted from it, it’s the only thing I have that is mine.” _It’s the only thing I have left of you_ is what he wishes to say but he dares not speak the words. But Merlin smiles a small private smile in the glow of the firelight maybe with a little bit of sadness but it’s bright enough to make Arthur’s heart beat just a bit faster because Merlin knows what he means like he always had.

 

The flames jolt suddenly as Merlin’s hand returns to his lap, pale and slender, the blue of the tattoo ink ringed round his knuckles but his left hand held only one solitary tattoo design written vertical along his ring finger. It reads Arto-riq-ios.

 

Arthur wants so much to reach out and touch but catches himself like he always had to growing up as a boy in that village. He feels less like a Roman commander and more like that little boy in that village when he is with Merlin.  

 

Instead he feeds the now liberated fire with another log. “I remember when I use to come to the village as a child, the elder would warn me not to touch you as it was forbidden. He said your body and spirit was made by the very fabric of the earth and all the magic with it. You were so sacred that no man, woman or child could be allowed to lay a hand on you.” Arthur looks back up at Merlin to see him biting his lip staring into the fire the light dancing over his pale face.

 

“It’s hard, not being allowed to be held by your Mother or comforted by a friend, or,” Merlin seems to take a shallow breath for a moment, “caressed by a lover.”

 

Arthur’s heart jolts at the words and he looks away as a rosy blush reaches Merlin’s pale cheeks. Arthur’s suddenly reminded of earlier of Merlin’s sudden sadness in fact there seems to be something plaguing on his mind the whole time. “What did you mean earlier?”

 

Merlin’s expression freezes sudden alarm coming over his face. At the spike of fear in Merlin’s eyes Arthur suddenly feels a great anger for whoever is responsible.

 

“Please don’t ask me that.” Merlin whispers and he looks into Arthur’s eyes silently begging. Arthur knows that he won’t get an answer but he comforts Merlin through voice when he cannot do so through touch. “I’d do anything for you.”

 

Merlin rosy blush is still visible in the firelight and he turns away from Arthur’s gaze.   

 

Merlin clears his throat. “It’s late,” he gets up slowly brushing the dirt off his robes lying Arthur’s cloak at his side. “Thank you for your company.” Arthur says.

 

And Merlin gives him a nod and soft _Goodnight_ before walking deeper into the cave though the light of the fire seems to still reach him before he is lying down his back to Arthur then the darkness is slowly swallowing him up allowing Arthur only to see an outline.

 

Arthur turns back to the fire content in his silence for a moment before reaching forward as if to copy Merlin’s action and to control the fire also. The fire crackles in response unchanged in its state, Arthur’s fingertips move forward in till they meet the fire. The flame licks at his skin and the heat burns him but he does not draw his hand back immediately content to feel the pain the heat brings.

 

When he does pull his hand back his skin is swollen red and blistered. The fire hisses its pleasure as Arthur runs his thumb over the injured skin before he turns his attention back to the heat sitting by the fire till the sun comes up her beams reaching through the cave and instead of rousing the inhabitants it lulls them in their sleep and as the soft glow of light reaches Arthur as he to feels his eyes drop uncontrollably and slumps against the rocks. A voice suddenly speaks close by and Arthur recognises it as Merlin’s his soft voice chanting in the tongue of magic. He feels Excalibur’s handle being pressed into his palms. Then he hears Merlin’s voice again whispering close to his ear “ _please forgive me._ ” Before darkness invokes him. 

 

 

.

 

Arthur wakes to midday hour light flooding through the cave. He starts and is on his feet immediately, unsheathing Excalibur. He remembers feeling suddenly sleepy unable to fight off the doziness. To his left Lancelot lays still asleep and Arthur attempts to wake him but the man’s breathing is deep and he doesn’t make a move. Arthur attempts it again with the others but with the same result.

 

Suddenly shocked Arthur realises Merlin is nowhere to be found he could have been taken by bandits but they would not have left him and his men alive but Merlin can handle himself and it is definitely not Saxons. It could be druids worried for Merlin and forcing him to leave without a word that would explain the state of his men.     

 

But he’s not instead he finds Merlin outside the cave his cloak ruffling in the wind as he stares off into the distance.

 

Arthur checks his surroundings before approaching “Merlin.” Arthur calls quietly weapon still in hand.  

 

Merlin’s head turns slightly to show Arthur he’s heard but his hood shields his face. “My men,” Arthur starts.

 

“They are asleep.” Merlin interrupts his voice heavy as if with tears.

 

“Yes, but I cannot wake them.”

 

Merlin sniffs. “That’s because they are under a spell. And will not wake till I say.”

 

Arthur approaches him still looking around in case anyone jumps out completely confused by Merlin’s words. Merlin voice is wrecked with sadness and it cracks as he speaks. “You must have known that you couldn’t wander these lands without us knowing.”

 

Arthur feels his heart freeze. “Us?”

 

“Something needed to be done,” Merlin says suddenly loud like he’s trying to convince himself “a message needed to be sent to the Romans.”

 

And Merlin turns and he does look like an utter wreck his eyes glassy, face pale and he’s barley holding back the tears. “And it had to be you, out of all the men the Bishop could have sent it had to be you.”

 

“What are you talking about?” Arthur’s voice hard.

 

Merlin laughs but it’s bitter and Arthur’s never heard such a thing from him. “Surely you must have guessed by now. I was sent to kill you and you’re men.”

 

“But I couldn’t—“ Merlin says shaking his head.

 

Arthur’s hand snaps out to grasp Merlin’s wrist to make him stop. This whole time it had been a plan to kill him and his men. Arthur had trusted Merlin when he should have trusted his men not allowing his judgement to be clouded by his feelings. This man, creature in front of him isn’t the boy from the village the one he fell utterly in love with. Yet he’s still standing here, he’d been here this whole time, talking to Arthur smiling or had that been a lie and front to gain Arthur’s trust.

 

This is a Woad, a distrustful rebel that would love to see Arthur’s head on a pike. Yet it is still Merlin in front of him powerful, vulnerable and beautiful Merlin. Arthur’s so deep in his angry thoughts that he doesn’t realize how hard he’s gripping Merlin’s closed wrist his thumb he realises just needed to slips under cloth and he’d finally, _finally_ be touching skin.        

 

“ _Arthur,_ ” Merlin whisperers, his voice soft but a rasp laced with fear, “ _please._ ”

 

And in that moment it gives him clarity not the plea from Merlin’s lips alone but the realisation of not knowing whether it is a plea to stop or continue.

 

“Damn you to hell.” Arthur says grabbing back his hand from Merlin’s clothed wrist with such force that the man wobbles slightly without the support. He’d been so close, his thumb only a touch away from Merlin’s pulse so close he could feel it’s rapid beating, hear Merlin’s heart beat in his ears mixing with his own, so close to touching skin for the first time. 

 

Arthur steps away from Merlin the moment he let’s go of him moving away, his back to Merlin but at an angle so that he can still see his figure from the corner of his eye. Arthur closes his eyes breathing deep till the pounding of his heart slows.

 

He opens them again to see Merlin not moved at all from his place. With his back to him Arthur speaks: “I did nothing but love you.”

 

“I know.”  Merlin whispers.

 

Anger flash straight through Arthur straight to his core. He turns and grabs Merlin’s upper arms his fingers digging into cloth and flesh and he ignores Merlin’s wince of pain. “No how could a creature like you know anything about love when you betray my trust and lead my men to their deaths!”

 

Merlin eyes are cold, his voice level and Arthur’s never seen anything worse. “I use to think you’d be a great King growing up in that village, that you’d free us from the tyranny of the Romans’ and unite this land under one kingdom. But things changed, I changed Arthur. Now I don’t see a King any more. All I see is a Roman.” 

 

“And all I see is an enemy!” Arthur shouts.  

 

Merlin closes his eyes and for a moment he looks pained, more like that confused little boy from the village who would reach for his mother when he’d fallen tears in his eyes when he’d get no response. When he opens his eyes Arthur is looking at a stranger that might as well be a Woad holding a sword to his throat. “I can buy you and your men a little time. So you best go now.”

 

When his men do wake, the anger and furiousness clear on their faces (Lancelot more than the others) Arthur has to talk them down they look ready to kill, and they look at Arthur their expression full of doubt and it makes him hate himself because he chose to risk the safety of his men over rekindling with a lost love.

 

His men do not wait for his word but instead set off on their horses.  

 

Arthur checks Llamrei’s reins but doesn’t move to climb. Instead he draws Excalibur from her sheath once more, angling the sharp edge of the blade so it’s pressing into Merlin’s side, griping around his waist with his free arm. “I should kill you.”

 

Merlin doesn’t meet his eyes. “I belong with my people.” He says his voice quiet and choked and it only fuels Arthur anger. “But sometimes I wish,” He doesn’t finish his eyes seeming to plead with Arthur’s, glassy eyes and tears beginning to collect ready to fall.   

 

“Arthur I—“ 

 

If Arthur had been a better man he would have let Merlin finish but god help him he’s so clouded by anger and the need to inflict pain and spill blood. He grabs Merlin’s neck – still cover by the veil – squeezing it so he chokes and the words never come.

 

“I do not wish to hear your lies.” He spits as Merlin chokes his beautiful pale skin flushed red. A single tear falls running down his pale cheek and Arthur releases Merlin watching him cough as he moves Excalibur so she’s pressing into his back so Merlin is pressed flush against him with nowhere to run.

 

It would be so easy now to take what he’s wanted all these years. With Excalibur in his hand even Merlin’s magic is useless. It would be easy to push and rip away the layers of cloth till he’s finally pressing against skin, finally touching it. He wonders if Merlin would fight at all, feel pain or would he so far gone at finally feeling human contact for the first time that all he would feel is pleasure. He’d let Arthur take what he wanted, even wrap himself around him, forcing more of his skin to Arthur’s so every inch can feel the heat while Arthur fucks into him on the filthy ground. He’d moan, gasp, and scream he’d be so over stimulated with just the press of skin against skin for a few seconds that he’d be halfway between begging for less and more. 

 

Arthur could do it now as he moves his fingertips ready to caress Merlin’s cheek wipe away the tear, kiss away the sobs on those beautiful lips.

 

Arthur freezes fingers so close he can practically feel the heat coming from Merlin’s skin.

 

No, no he can’t do this.

 

He lets go of Merlin.

 

The sorcerer stumbled his legs weak and Arthur does not bother to help him he just mounts Llamrei, sheathing his sword. When he looks Merlin’s back is still to him, attempting to stifle his sobs but he looks like he’s about to turn. Arthur looks away before their eyes can meet kicking his stead into a gallop. He keeps his eye front not giving into temptation to look at Merlin for the last time.

 

He rides hard never looking back the sound of his heart hammering in his ears to remind him that it’s still there, still beating.

 

Arthur leaves the North; he leaves Britain; he leaves Merlin.

 

.

 

When Arthur reaches the opening of the woods, his men have gathered waiting for him. All of them seem relaxed but quiet after the turn of events.

 

He cannot meet their eyes but it is when he feels Lancelot’s hand on his shoulder he looks up to meet the eyes of his brother in arms. “Arthur,” he says, “You must know our trust in you will never falter no matter what.”

 

Arthur nods he knew this but he is needed to hear it. He places his hand on Lancelot’s nodding to his brother and friend and then to the rest of his men all who return the response eyes unwavering.

 

“Our freedom awaits gentleman.”

 

His men’s faces break out in smiles. “I can almost taste it.” Gawain says with a smirk.

 

They lead their horses forward but Arthur holds back silently thanking god for the safety of his men and himself.

 

The wind suddenly picks up speed, winding round Arthur like a lover. It feels as if an invisible hand is caressing his cheek.

 

Arthur closes his eyes.

 

Hadrian's Wall is within view and Arthur can feel his freedom the thing he and his knights have been fighting for so long now.  Llamrei catches up easy with the other horses and Arthur joins his men’s side as they ride through the moor towards their freedom. Never again will this land see all these riders together.

 

Around them the wind seems to cry for its loss.     

**Author's Note:**

> Ahhh! What did I just do? 
> 
> This fic was inspired after watching the King Arthur movie, some concepts are very close to it. Feedback would be lovely!
> 
> (Arto-riq-ios = Arthur)


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